


Local Bank Account

by smirkdoctor



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: M/M, discussion of death of a parent, flirting via banking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 09:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20992352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smirkdoctor/pseuds/smirkdoctor
Summary: It was just a foreign account he opened to facilitate his poker habit in the summer of 1983. But as he begins to receive notices about small deposits made in 2000, Oliver wonders: Could it be more?





	Local Bank Account

For nearly twenty years, the account statements only came in the midst of large celebrations in Oliver’s life. At such times, his attention was caught up in the exaltation of the newly-minted PhD, the just-married, the new parent. He dutifully filed the printed sheets in a folder labelled “Crema Account.” The file sat, slim and innocuous, next to records of his sons’ college savings accounts, and Oliver kept on living.

But one summer afternoon in 2000, a statement arrives, and this time there are no distractions, no competing interest. Oliver opens the envelope and notes passively that eighteen drachmae were recently deposited into his Italian bank account. But something causes him to do a double-take-- yes, the currency, a change from the usual lire, but then there’s the _amount_. 

_Eighteen _drachmae. _Chai_. Life. The traditional amount gifted to celebrate times of joy in the Jewish faith. He can’t believe he’d missed that detail before.

But nothing joyful has touched Oliver’s life in the two years since his elder son’s bar mitzvah. His marriage is slowly dissolving and his sons are distancing themselves from him. He has been spending more and more time shut in his office, ostensibly thinking about his next book. In reality, he mostly sits and stares out his window, contemplating the decisions of his past that created his present.

His Bubbe would have shaken her head and said he was _ferdrimmeled_.

This invoice is like a bucket of cold water splashing suddenly around his head and shoulders, waking him briefly from his half-conscious life. He wonders if that was the point. 

But then his phone rings and he’s swept up into a conversation with his publisher.

A month later, a notice comes that someone has wired eighteen francs to his account. Two weeks later, it’s the same number of British pounds. Frustrated and intrigued, Oliver grabs the file folder, and suddenly, with the statements spread out over his desk, it’s too much to ignore.

There are statements dating from every major event in his life: 18 lire for his thesis defense, deposits for his hooding, for the publication of his book on Heraclitus, for his wedding, the birth of each of his children, his offer of tenure, and Adam’s bar mitzvah. 

And then...nothing until these three recent donations in disparate denominations. 

Who even knew about that Italian bank account? 

It occurs to him that he hasn’t spoken to Sammy in a couple of years. He has no idea what is happening in the family that gave him so much over one summer in Italy.

And then he’s _ferdrimmeled _again, lost in memories of pale eyes, pale skin, and dark curls.

Oliver turns to his computer, opens a browser window, and types a name he has barely dared to think for nearly twenty years, into a search engine. It’s time to find out what Elio Perlman is trying to tell him.

All that precocious teenage talent has been put to great use in a performing career. The Italian-American pianist has headlined concerts with symphonies across the globe. According to more than one news article, the real show often occurs after the performance, when the handsome young musician communicates with adoring audiences in multiple languages.

Oliver feels a swell of pride in his chest, a warmth and completeness he hasn’t felt in far too long. He manages to find a record of Elio’s latest concert tour, and, sure enough, he’s recently stopped in Athens, Paris, and London. The program features a new composition dedicated to the memory of his father, esteemed professor Samuel Perlman.

His breath catches in his throat. _Why didn’t I hear?_ He opens another window and quickly reads the obituary. Pro’s drawn-out illness ended suddenly about two months ago. And if Anella has been grieving, it’s no wonder he wasn’t first on the list of phone calls.

He toggles back to the description of Elio’s tour and his eyes drift down the list of upcoming performances. There’s one scheduled for Hanover ten days from today. It’s atypical for an internationally renowned artist to stop in small-town New Hampshire, and Oliver thinks he might have found what his attention was being drawn towards. 

The next week, a statement for eighteen Canadian dollars arrives. _Right on time_, Oliver thinks, considering that Elio performed in Toronto five days ago.

Spaulding Auditorium is packed full for the concert, and Oliver feels claustrophobic as he folds his tall frame into the rigid seating. But all discomfort is forgotten as Elio enters and sits before a grand piano on the proscenium.

The music that issues from the ensemble is sublime. It washes over Oliver with the sunny, skipping wit of the Pro’s smile while the solid, earthy chords provide stability, profundity. _It sounds just like Samuel,_ he thinks, and smiles through his tears. 

Oliver blinks and it’s over. He’s on his feet, clapping, and without entirely meaning to, he’s striding toward the stage. Elio is staring at him, then bending down to accept the roses he brought. He whispers in Oliver’s ear to wait in the green room and he complies, fighting the cheering crowd to gain some space to catch his breath.

Oliver feels a slight tap on his shoulder as he sits in a chair in the green room, and he stands to greet Elio with a tight, friendly hug. His nose nudges Elio’s ear and he pauses, waiting to be rebuffed. When he’s not, he buries it in the dark, curly hair.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t listening to what you were telling me,” Oliver murmurs.

“It wasn’t me, for the most part,” Elio shares. “I was going through Papa’s paperwork toward the end and I found your account information. I went to the bank to check it out myself and saw that he’d been celebrating you...your life...since that summer.”

The tears begin to swell in Elio’s eyes and Oliver finds he can’t look away. “Your father was a great man.”

Elio nods and steps back, moving around Oliver to bring a messenger bag out from beside a chaise lounge. He reaches in and places a small urn on a side table.

“He left the job of spreading his ashes to me,” he murmurs. “He wanted to be forever present in all the places he knew and loved, to celebrate the bits of life he lived in each. There’s a list of fifteen cities.” Elio’s eyes are filled to the brim. 

“The idea of visiting all of them alone was awful. I set up a tour so I wouldn’t be alone on my travels.” He takes a deep breath and steadies his shaky voice. “But then I realized I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it, to share in the ceremony.”

“Yeah?” Oliver breathes, stepping closer again, bringing a hand up to run fingers lightly through the hair at Elio’s nape.

“Aside from my mother, and Mafalda and Anchise, you are the person who knew him best.” 

Oliver scoffs. 

“No, really. And you know_ me_. So well.” Elio’s hand grazes the Star of David laying over Oliver’s chest but under his shirt. “Because you are my brother.” Oliver leans in minutely and their noses graze.

“You are my husband, my lover.” Oliver feels a hand trail up his chest and tuck a small wad of bills into his breast pocket. “You are me, Elio.”

Oliver removes the money and glances at the eighteen American dollars before tucking it into his pants pocket. He captures the hand lingering on his chest and and kisses it gently.

“Somehow I doubt that Hanover, New Hampshire was on your father’s list of destinations,” he whispers against Elio’s cheek. “So what are we celebrating?”

Elio turns his head and Oliver finally kisses those soft, tear-smeared lips.

This first kiss tastes like love and heartbreak, like beginnings and endings. 

It tastes like _life_.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been lurking in this fandom and its wonderful fic since I finally saw the movie this summer. And that local bank account set up shop in my mind and wouldn't leave me alone until I figured out a way it could bring our boys back together. 
> 
> I'm not Jewish, so pardon any flubs regarding tradition, but pleasepleaseplease tell me about them so I can fix things!


End file.
